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Authors: Linda O. Johnston
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was to go next to The Fittest Pet to ensure that Hope was checked out more thoroughly before we decided what to do with her.
For now, though, I went into my office and grabbed the microchip scanner. Hope cowered a bit as I knelt on the tilefloor and ran the gadget over her while Carlie and Nina watched.
Yes! There was a microchip embedded in her back beneath her curly reddish coat. The small rice-sized gadget should help us find Hope’s owner.
Who might be looking desperately for the poor, missing animal. Or not. I’d reserve judgment whether to feel sorry for the despondent owner who’d tried everything to find his or her pet, or to hate the careless, uncaring person who had let Hope get lost and wasn’t even searching for her.
In my work with animals over the past few years, I’d seen and dealt with both.
At the moment, I looked at the information, grabbed my phone, and called the microchip registry company noted on the readout. The operator who answered quickly found a dog matching Hope’s description with the same ID number and gave me the contact data. Since I’d dealt with this company before and they knew about HotRescues, getting them to provide me with the somewhat confidential information was no problem.
I jotted down the name and phone number. The name sounded familiar: Guy Randell. Same name as a Los Angeles city councilperson. Could it be him?
Carlie and Nina looked over my shoulder toward the pad of paper I held. “Really?” Carlie said.
“It doesn’t seem like that common a name, but it isn’t necessarily who we think it is,” I replied. I hugged Hope, then asked Nina to take her into the small kitchen and give her some dinner. “I’ll bet the poor thing hasn’t eaten for a while.”
“Should I call Margo up here and ask her to give Hope a bath?” Nina asked.
“I’d rather have her health checked before she sees our groomer,” I said.
Nina put a temporary collar on Hope and snapped on a leash. She seemed to know what they were for, since she didn’t balk at accompanying Nina into the other room. I’d already used a leash with a slip-collar from my car to walk Hope briefly in the parking lot. She also appeared to be housebroken.
I wished, not for the first time when I met a new animal, that we had a better way to communicate. I’d love to know Hope’s background from her own perspective.
For now, though, Carlie and I went into the rest room, sanitized our hands, and sprayed a light disinfectant mist over our clothes. Then we entered my office, where Zoey greeted us both effusively.
Sitting at my desk, I used the speakerphone on my landline to call the number I’d been given by the microchip company.
Sure enough, “Councilman Randell’s office,” said the friendly female voice that answered.
Keeping my tone professional, I said, “My name is Lauren Vancouver. I’m the administrator of HotRescues, a private pet rescue facility. I’d like to speak to the councilman about his dog. Is he available?”
“His dog?” the voice repeated as incredulously as if I’d asked to speak to the councilman’s long-deceased great-grandfather. “Just a minute.” Before I could say anything else, I was apparently put on hold since I didn’t hear anythingfor at least a minute. Then, “Ms. Vancouver? Sorry to keep you waiting, but I checked. The councilman doesn’t own a dog.”
My turn for silence, but only for a moment. “May I speak with him, please? I got his information after checking out the microchip in a stray dog I found. I’d just like a clarification.” And verification, in case whoever this was didn’t know what she was talking about. I suspected, though, that I’d been put on hold so she could ask around to confirm whether the councilman did or didn’t have a canine pet.
“Just a moment and I’ll check.”
Good thing I wasn’t in a hurry to do something else, since once again I was treated to a lengthy silence. I broke it by saying to Carlie, “This
For now, though, I went into my office and grabbed the microchip scanner. Hope cowered a bit as I knelt on the tilefloor and ran the gadget over her while Carlie and Nina watched.
Yes! There was a microchip embedded in her back beneath her curly reddish coat. The small rice-sized gadget should help us find Hope’s owner.
Who might be looking desperately for the poor, missing animal. Or not. I’d reserve judgment whether to feel sorry for the despondent owner who’d tried everything to find his or her pet, or to hate the careless, uncaring person who had let Hope get lost and wasn’t even searching for her.
In my work with animals over the past few years, I’d seen and dealt with both.
At the moment, I looked at the information, grabbed my phone, and called the microchip registry company noted on the readout. The operator who answered quickly found a dog matching Hope’s description with the same ID number and gave me the contact data. Since I’d dealt with this company before and they knew about HotRescues, getting them to provide me with the somewhat confidential information was no problem.
I jotted down the name and phone number. The name sounded familiar: Guy Randell. Same name as a Los Angeles city councilperson. Could it be him?
Carlie and Nina looked over my shoulder toward the pad of paper I held. “Really?” Carlie said.
“It doesn’t seem like that common a name, but it isn’t necessarily who we think it is,” I replied. I hugged Hope, then asked Nina to take her into the small kitchen and give her some dinner. “I’ll bet the poor thing hasn’t eaten for a while.”
“Should I call Margo up here and ask her to give Hope a bath?” Nina asked.
“I’d rather have her health checked before she sees our groomer,” I said.
Nina put a temporary collar on Hope and snapped on a leash. She seemed to know what they were for, since she didn’t balk at accompanying Nina into the other room. I’d already used a leash with a slip-collar from my car to walk Hope briefly in the parking lot. She also appeared to be housebroken.
I wished, not for the first time when I met a new animal, that we had a better way to communicate. I’d love to know Hope’s background from her own perspective.
For now, though, Carlie and I went into the rest room, sanitized our hands, and sprayed a light disinfectant mist over our clothes. Then we entered my office, where Zoey greeted us both effusively.
Sitting at my desk, I used the speakerphone on my landline to call the number I’d been given by the microchip company.
Sure enough, “Councilman Randell’s office,” said the friendly female voice that answered.
Keeping my tone professional, I said, “My name is Lauren Vancouver. I’m the administrator of HotRescues, a private pet rescue facility. I’d like to speak to the councilman about his dog. Is he available?”
“His dog?” the voice repeated as incredulously as if I’d asked to speak to the councilman’s long-deceased great-grandfather. “Just a minute.” Before I could say anything else, I was apparently put on hold since I didn’t hear anythingfor at least a minute. Then, “Ms. Vancouver? Sorry to keep you waiting, but I checked. The councilman doesn’t own a dog.”
My turn for silence, but only for a moment. “May I speak with him, please? I got his information after checking out the microchip in a stray dog I found. I’d just like a clarification.” And verification, in case whoever this was didn’t know what she was talking about. I suspected, though, that I’d been put on hold so she could ask around to confirm whether the councilman did or didn’t have a canine pet.
“Just a moment and I’ll check.”
Good thing I wasn’t in a hurry to do something else, since once again I was treated to a lengthy silence. I broke it by saying to Carlie, “This
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